


Madmen of the Reach

by inkandfireby



Series: Tales of Tamriel [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, F/M, No Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Skyrim Quest: The Forsworn Conspiracy, The Forsworn (Elder Scrolls)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:41:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28855992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandfireby/pseuds/inkandfireby
Summary: Deep in the darkness and filth of the slave prison Cidhna Mine, they're plotting revenge. This time, the Nords will not win. Nobody will stand in their way.
Series: Tales of Tamriel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2116032
Kudos: 1





	1. The College's Collection

The Bear or Markarth  
The Crimes of Ulfric Stormcloak

by  
Arrianus Arius  
Imperial Scholar

Ulfric Stormcloak is considered a hero by many for his part in quelling the Forsworn Uprising. It is said that when the Empire abandoned Skyrim, and the natives of the Reach rebelled (undoubtedly due to the Nords poor treatment of them), Ulfric Stormcloak and his militia was there to retake "their" land from the Forsworn. In all the bravado and epic yarns the skalds compose of his exploits, you would think Ulfric to be a giant of a man, equal to that of Tiber Septim in his cunning, leadership, and decisive actions.  
But the truth is far more revealing. Yes, from 4E 174-176, the Forsworn did in fact rule over the Reach as an independent kingdom from Skyrim. Yes, this was accomplished while the Empire was beset by Aldmeri Dominion forces and could not send the Legion to re-establish order. And yes, Ulfric Stormcloak did quell the rebellion without Imperial assistance. That much is true, but what the bards often fail to tell in their stories is that the Forsworn Kingdom was quite peaceful for those 2 years they were in power.

True, some crimes were committed against former Nord landowners (often those accused of being the harshest towards their native workers), but on the whole the Forsworn ruled their lands fairly, and were making overtures to be recognized by the Empire as a legitimate kingdom.

In the wake of the aftermath of the Great War, you can imagine the backlog on stately matters the Empire had. Before a peace treaty could be resolved with the Forsworn, a militia led by Ulfric Stormcloak sieged the gates of their capital, Markarth. What happened during that battle was war, but what happened after the battle was over is nothing short of war crimes.

Every official who worked for the Forsworn was put to the sword, even after they had surrendered. Native women were tortured to give up the names of Forsworn fighters who had fled the city or were in the hills of the Reach. Anyone who lived in the city, Forsworn and Nord alike, were executed if they had not fought with Ulfric and his men when they breached the gates. "You are with us, or you are against Skyrim" was the message on Ulfric's lips as he ordered the deaths of shopkeepers, farmers, the elderly, and any child old enough to lift a sword that had failed in the call to fight with him.

So when a "grateful" Empire accepted Ulfric's victory and sent soldiers to re-establish the rule of law in the Reach, it was no surprise that he would demand to be allowed to worship Talos freely before the Legion could enter. With chaos running through the streets of Markarth and the reports of deaths rising every day, the Empire had no choice but to grant Ulfric and his men their worship.

We allowed them to worship Talos, in full violation of the White-Gold Concordat with the Aldmeri Dominion (which recognizes the elven belief that Talos, as a human, cannot be one of the Divines). In jeopardizing the treaty that so many sacrificed for during the Great War, the Empire was wrong. But what choice did they have, I ask you? Against the Bear of Markarth, Ulfric Stormcloak, "no" is not an answer.

The Madmen of the Reach  
A Cultural Treatise on the Forsworn

by  
Arrianus Arius  
Imperial Scholar

Since the legendary victory of Tiber Septim over the "barbarian natives" in the Battle of Old Hroldan, Imperial and Nord scholarship has cast the people of the Reach as little more than savages, prone to irrational fits of violence, worshipping old, heretical gods, and fetishizing beasts and nature spirits that any civilized person would best well avoid. In truth, these accounts are little more than "victor's essays," a perspective narrowed by the Empire's constant strife with the ancient, proud people that lived in this land far before Tiber Septim walked the soil of Tamriel. In light of this, I hope to create a more complete, accurate, and fair assessment of a group that has long suffered under the role of "enemy," "troublemakers," and "them."

Let us begin with the Forsworn, the so-called "madmen" of the Reach. The Imperial Legion classifies them as little more than brigands, noting their constant raids and ambushes within the Hold. But none of their military reports asks the question of "why?" If they were merely a group of bandits, surely they would be focused on acquiring gold and minimizing deaths among their own. But the opposite is true in Forsworn attacks. Large sums of coin are often left behind, and their fighters easily throw away their lives rather than risk capture by Imperial soldiers.

It is this incongruity that led me to Markarth, the capital city of the Reach, in search of answers. There, I met one of the native peoples, an old woman who preferred to not be named in my writings. She told me of her family's long history. How she believes they originally came from High Rock, home of the Bretons (which would explain the similar faces and stature of the two peoples). How the Nords came and took their lands, their gods, and their culture from them. When asked about the Forsworn, the old woman would say that they are the "real" men and women of the Reach: those that refused to give in to the Nords. Those that still practiced the ancient traditions that the rest of their people had abandoned in exchange for peace.

In time, I was able to create trust with many more natives in my search that corroborated the old woman's story. By chance, one of them arranged a meeting between myself and what I thought was an elder member of his village. I was shocked to find that I was led to a camp, filled with the animal skulls, severed heads, and still beating hearts that I had read about from the military reports back in the Imperial City. There, I met Cortoran, a Forsworn, who seemed amused at the prospect of me writing down his story. Which I quote in full below:

"You want to know who the Forsworn are? We are the people who must pillage our own land. Burn our own ground. We are the scourge of the Nords. The axe that falls in the dark. The scream before the gods claim your soul. We are the true sons and daughters of the Reach. The spirits and hags have lived here from the beginning, and they are on our side. Go back. Go back and tell your Empire that we will have our own kingdom again. And on that day, we will be the ones burying your dead in a land that is no longer yours."


	2. Promise

༺ 4E 187 ༻

Aegil waited.

He sat on the soft ground, his legs dangling from the raised platform of turf her perched on. Huffing in boredom, the boy frowned. Turning his head to look across the plains, he observed that the sun was just beginning to creep over the peak of distant Dragonsreach. Aegil shrugged, turning his hazel gaze back to face the house across the road. It was a humble little dwelling, stone and wood and thatch, with only a few rooms and a patch outside for leek and cabbage. A few chickens strutted aimlessly around the grass around the house. The boy clicked his tongue, swinging his legs restlessly as he stared intently at the door of the house. His best friend was yet to emerge. He let loose a breath, and blinked. A dartwing flitted past, carried by the early morning breeze. He blew some of his brown curls from his eyes — his mother had been nagging him for weeks to cut it. Folding his arms, Aegil frowned. Where was she?

No sooner than had he though that, the door of the little house opened. A redheaded girl slipped out and shut the door quietly behind her. He perked up and straightened as soon as he set eyes on her.

"Sorcha!" He yelled for her, waving frantically.

Sorcha jumped slightly, snapping her head around to the direction of the sound. When she saw her friend, though, her big blue eyes widened and crinkled again into a smile that swallowed her whole face. She waved back, gathered up her muddied skirts and ran towards him. He slid off of the rock and ran to meet her. He folded his arms. She was still taller than him. He was unfortunately quite a small lad, but his father kept promising Aegil he'd grow.

"Hi Aegil! What'cha doing?" She asked.

"Was waiting for you. You take too long."

"I had to muck out the pigs again. Annika got out of it." Sorcha's face always seemed to cloud over whenever she mentioned her elder sister.

"Why don't your Ma or Pa make her do it?"

"Because she's older, she's gotta pretty herself up for a husband to come along." Her nose wrinkled.

"You don't want a husband though, do you?"

"Eww! No! Gross!"

She ran off, beckoning Aegil to follow. A giggle escaping his mouth, he did, and for a moment, there was no sound except the pounding of two pairs of small feet down a stone road. The elderly widow was stood out on her front veranda, and scowled at the riotous children as they ran past.

"I hope your baby doesn't turn out as irritating as they are." She hissed to her daughter.

Sorcha stuck her tongue out at them and hollered loudly, leaning forward and springing into a cartwheel. And another. And another. The woman's breath caught as she worried for the child's safety, but Aegil marvelled at his best friend's flexibility and attitude towards her elders. She'd always shown a profound disregard for her actions and the consequences. Sorcha's defiance was a very unhealthy trait, but she knew that and stuck by Aegil because he was the only one who could calm her down and make her apologise. The rebellious child kept cartwheeling and cartwheeling, before stumbling over her own feet and fell, taking Aegil's feet out from under him as she rolled down the hill into a patch of long grass. The boy yelped as he rolled down with her. 

After a few seconds, Sorcha sat up and began to giggle. Then, her giggles bloomed into a full and joyous laugh. Aegil began to laugh shakily, before joining her in laughter.

"Woah, woah! What's happened to you two?" A rich tone joined their laughter.

Aegil looked up to see the widow's son in law — he carried a few dead rabbits and pheasants in his grip.

"We fell." Sorcha answered him in between giggles.

"Be careful. I hope my child won't be as riotous as you, or I'll fear for its life!"

"We will, sir." Aegil snickered.

The man rolled his eyes, before kneeling down. "You know, there's a giant encampment just behind those trees."

He gestured to a cluster of pine trees. Red, orange and gold glowed through the gaps in the sprigs and ugly grey smoke curled from the tops of the trees. The two children gasped in unison and scrambled up, their boundless energy carrying them across the plains towards the camps. Shaking his head and chuckling to himself, he hauled his rabbits over his shoulder and wandered home. 

Aegil and Sorcha spent all day observing the giants, watching them lumber around quite dumbly, stroking the coats of their beloved mammoths. They were chased away after Sorcha decided it would be a good idea to poke one of the mammoths with a stick. When they returned from the camp, the light had died and night had thrown its cloak on the sky. They lay down on some flat grass and stared and the sky; Masser and Secunda hung like sea-pearls, and small stars glittered among the rippling silk-like shades of the aurora. Sorcha sighed contentedly, and a thought popped into her head

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" she asked.

"I want to be a guard." Aegil replied after a pause for thought. "I wanna be able to protect people. Y'know, like people who can't protect themselves! Oh, and I wanna protect you, too. You're my best friend."

"Protect me?"

"Yep!"

"Forever?"

"Ever and ever."

"Ever and ever and ever?"

"You're being weird."

Grinning impishly, Sorcha turned to him, her ice-blue eyes meeting his with both a question and a promise.

"You'll always protect me?"

"Always."


	3. The Sorcerer's Apprentice

༺ 4E 197 ༻

Nothing happened.

She closed her palms and opened them again.

Nothing happened.

Curling her hands into fists once more, she shut her eyes and took a long, steadying breath. Her brow creased as she chewed on her lip, willing the spell to come. Lightning. Come on. Simple purple sparks. You can do this. She imagined the crackling in her bones, the charge in her blood, spitting and fizzing, energy blooming through her, imagined it as hard as she could. Tightening her fists, she ground her teeth. Lightning. Lightning. Lightning.

She opened her palms.

Nothing happened. 

"Are you kidding me?" Elle hissed.

She collapsed backwards onto her bed. Covering her hands with her eyes, she let out a long and mighty groan. Half an hour. That's how long she'd spent sitting there, cross-legged on the bed, staring at her hands in an attempt to conjure something destructive. Illusions were no problem, conjuration fairly straightforward, restoration trivial, alteration a breeze, but destruction was the school that eluded her, no matter how hard she tried. A frown painted itself on her face as she loosened, staring at the blank ceiling. Elle longed to leave this tiny bedroom, this room that had been her home for two years, for the Hall of Countenance. She would be the youngest to take up residence there, and that would certainly make her mother proud. That is, if she could first tackle destruction. 

"No luck?"

Elle looked up. Her gaze was met by a dark elf leaning against the doorframe.

"How do you do it, Brelyna?"

Brelyna Maryon sighed, a light laugh bubbling up in her tone. Advancing into the room, she perched on the end of the bed, cocking her head in sympathy.   
"What is it that you find so difficult?"

Elle shrugged. "I know the spells, it's just..."

"It's just what?"

She sagged. "I can't seem to make anything happen."

The dark elf chewed on her lip, her incarnadine eyes swirling with thought. "That's a bit odd. I mean, I've experienced small errors with conjuration, but..."

Elle sat up, running a hand through her blonde hair. She frowned, beginning to weave it into a braid. Noting her friend's expression, Brelyna sat up straighter, instantly trying to brighten the conversation.

"I'm sure you'll get it eventually!" she said, with a small and hopeful smile.

"Yeah..." 

Elle finished tying her braid and stood from her bed. She'd been sat on it for ages, and her body had begun to lock up. Brelyna rose, folding her arms. She retreated back a few steps, allowing the Breton to get herself together. Elle reached for her navy blue robes and slipped her arms into the sleeves. Yawning, she fastened the rope around her middle.

"I'm ready now," she said.

"Good," Brelyna hastened out of the door, "Mirabelle will roast you and me if we're late to lecture one more time."

The Hall of Attainment was already virtually empty. Onmund and J'zargo had risen earlier to arrive in the Hall of the Elements prior first lecture, making Elle and Brelyna look bad by comparison (intentionally, in J'zargo's case). As they opened the door to the courtyard of the college, the harsh cold hit Elle severely and she hissed, chastising herself for not tying her robes tighter.

"Oh, I probably should have mentioned," Brelyna said, the fur lining her robe poking out from the inside, "it's a blizzard today."

Elle gave her a flat look, shivering as she stepped out into the cold. Brelyna looked across to her friend and lit a flame spell, the little fire growing and dancing in her greyish palm. The warmth slowly bled through Elle's robes, granting her a shred of warmth.

"Show off." Elle chuckled, her voice shuddering from the cold.

Brelyna shrugged, rolling her eyes. "I could just let you freeze."

Elle shook her head vigorously, her teeth audibly chattering. "No! No!" she sighed, glaring at her friend. "Thank you, Brelyna. Now, can we just get inside."

The two girls picked up their robes and ran out into the full onslaught of the snow, the wind tossing their hair, tugging at their robes, icing what skin was exposed. Elle took a sharp intake of breath at the cold and started at a dead sprint towards the large door ahead of her. She ran past the large statue in the centre of the round courtyard and, after too many seconds, reached the door. Flattening herself against it, she pounded on the door with her fist. 

Tolfdir opened it.

"Ellaine, Brelyna! There you are, girls. We were just about to begin."

"Sorry Tolfdir, we—"

"Oh, hush now," his eyes shone with a kindly light as he opened the door wider, "get in out of that frightful blizzard."

Elle and Brelyna wasted no time in scurrying inside, slamming the door behind them. Shivering, they dusted the snow that had accumulated on their clothes. Brelyna sighed. She turned and made her way to where J'zargo and Onmund were already stood, opposing Sergius Turrianus, Master of Enchanting. Elle's heart sank. Oh, how lovely, she grumbled internally. Enchanting was her least favourite thing, and she liked Sergius just about as much. Grinding her teeth together, she started to follow Brelyna, when there were footsteps behind her.

"Ellaine?"

Elle turned around. "Yes?"

Mirabelle Ervine paused, advancing a few steps towards her. She cast a lightning quick gaze towards Sergius and the students, before returning her gaze to Elle. "May I speak with you?"

Oh, this wasn't good, not good at all. "Of course."

The older Breton nodded, turning to face the people gathered in the middle of the hall. "Sergius, I'm going to borrow Ellaine for a moment."

He gave a wordless nod and turned back to the other students. Mirabelle inclined her head towards the door to the Arcanaeum, the College's library. Ellaine spent hours in there, reading about every possible subject she could. Mostly, she read about blocks in magicka and how to overcome them. She followed Mirabelle through the door and up the stairs, through the countless shelves of books until she turned, rather abruptly, to face her. 

"I'm sure you're wondering what this is about."

"How did you know?" Elle asked, a little sarcasm bleeding it to her tone.

"I'm sure you're aware of your skill, Ellaine." Mirabelle said plainly.

Elle shrugged, clasping her hands together. "I don't know, Mirabelle, I—"

"Don't be modest. You're skilled in almost every school, and your destruction theory is satisfactory."

"Thank you." Elle smiled slightly at the compliment. "But, with all due respect, why are you bringing this up?"

Mirabelle reached into the folds of her robe, pulling out a small letter, sealed with green wax. The stamp was a ram's head, with two long and curled horns. It had been opened already.

"This letter," she began, opening it again, "comes from Calcelmo, the Court Wizard of Markarth. He wrote to me directly, some time ago, inquiring about the possibility of an apprentice. His nephew, Aicantar, has begun his own experiments and thus cannot assist him anymore. What he wanted was someone with a good knowledge of conjuration theory and soul gems, and who is able to learn quickly."

"And you considered me?" Elle's eyes widened.

"No," Mirabelle replied pointedly, "Arch-Mage Yavana considered you."

Elle's heart skipped a beat. Yavana? The Arch-Mage seldom left her quarters, and when she did, she only spoke to the masters of the college. Elle didn't even think Yavana knew who she was. Evidently, she did. Swallowing   
hard, Elle twined her finger around the end of her braid. Stendarr's Mercy.

"She considered me by name?"

Mirabelle gave Elle a look. "Yes. By name. Ellaine Octave. She instructed me to make your travel arrangements."

"You've made the decision already? Without consulting me?"

"You'd be stupid to pass up on an opportunity like this, Ellaine. Think of the field knowledge that you would gain."

Elle stepped back, placing a hand on a nearby bookshelf to steady herself. She was going to be the apprentice of a Court Wizard. She blinked. And blinked again. She blinked a couple more times and swallowed.

"Why me?" she asked. "Why not J'zargo? He's always claiming to be the best, and..."

Mirabelle's responding eye roll ordinarily made Elle snicker. "The cat is skilled, that's true. But Calcelmo would not be able to stand someone so... overconfident. Calcelmo is, admittedly, a bit tough to get used to, and the cat would just rile him up. You, on the other hand, are well-mannered and would do nicely."

Elle blinked.

"You leave at dawn on Sundas, you'll stop at Whiterun and Karthwasten for rest, and arrive in Markarth on Tirdas evening."

Mirabelle strode past Elle, making for the door through which they'd come mere moments ago. "You'd best start packing."


	4. The Dregs

༺ 4E 198 ༻

If there was one thing that Sorcha prided herself on, it was that she didn't ask questions. She was efficient. Some others in her trade may give their employers unnecessary lip or attitude, demanding to know every last detail, but not Sorcha. She stuck to the simple briefing, did what she needed to do and collected her pay, before stumbling off to the closest tavern to drink herself into a stupor. It wasn't the healthiest of lifestyles, but at least it fed her, put the armour on her back and persuaded people to leave her alone. A variety of things had been asked of her throughout the years - slay a bear, eliminate a bandit leader, clear out an infestation, and on the odd occasion to fight in the civil war. The blood of both sides stained her blade. She never picked, save for the one with the heavier coinpurse. The life of a mercenary seemed endless, travelling from one battle to the next, hearing the heavy clink of gold clatter into her palm. Never resting, no home to return to. Some people pitied her, but it suited Sorcha fine.

She'd made a dreadful mistake in ordering ale. Sorcha frowned at her tankard, swirling the vaguely brown liquid around with little enthusiasm. The stuff tasted like piss, looked like it too. Sorcha set down the tankard on the long table and stared at it. Imagining skooma or balmora blue in the ale's place was both torture and solace. Even mead would have been an improvement, sickly sweet stuff that it was. She pushed the tankard across the table, the contents sloshing around gently. Who was that woman in Whiterun who sold sleeping tree sap? Ysolda? Sorcha pinched the bridge of her nose; she was in the need of something— anything.

"You're not a traveller, are you?"

Sorcha turned half around. A little girl stood there. She was pretty, petite and brunette, looking at Sorcha with a wide-eyed stare.

Sorcha offered a weary, amicable smile. "Why don't you think I'm a traveller?"

"You have a sword."

"Lots of travellers have swords."

"Yours isn't iron." the girl pointed to the weapon lying on the bench at Sorcha's side. "It's fine steel - been on a grindstone not that long ago."

Sorcha blinked. "You're observant."

"Yep!" The girl beamed, rocking forwards on her toes. "Papa's a blacksmith! I wanna be his apprentice, but he says I'm not big enough yet."

An unforced smile tugged at Sorcha's lip. She turned around, swinging her legs over the bench and looking at the girl directly. She couldn't have been more than seven. A wooden sword was clutched tightly in her grip; no doubt the happy compromise of a doll and a dagger. The bottom of her dress was dirty and discoloured, a pale patch stitched meticulously onto the fabric around the knees. She was rambunctious, wild, energetic. She reminded Sorcha of herself.

"I'm Dorthe." she said.

"I'm Sorcha."

"How old are you? I'm seven." As Sorcha suspected.

"Twenty-two."

Dorthe's eyes widened. Despite herself, Sorcha chuckled. A smile spread across Dorthe's face - her front teeth were missing, but that somehow made her smile more endearing.

"Papa says I'm too friendly with strangers." she admitted, shrugging. "You seem alright, though."

Sorcha inclined her head. "I'm honoured."

Dorthe giggled again. She skipped forward, slung her leg over the bench and sat down. Sorcha turned and looked at her. Dorthe had a round, chubby face, her skin not yet marked by the blemishes adolescents brought. Freckles dotted her nose, and flecks of green shone in her wide eyes. There wasn't a trace of the dark circles and pock-mark scars decorating Sorcha's, no signs of acne or addiction. It almost reminded Sorcha of her sister, but she scared the thought out of her head.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" Sorcha asked.

Dorthe pouted. "No... just me."

"Who do you play with?"

The girl smiled again, crossing her legs. "Frodnar. He's really fun but sometime she can be mean."

Sorcha didn't have a clue who Frodnar was, but she nodded along. "How?"

"He likes pranks. He goes too far every time. The other day he made Embry think he'd been attacked by a werewolf. It was just Frodnar's dog Stump though."

Dorthe clearly didn't approve, so Sorcha decided to hold back her chuckle. The conversation halted for a moment.

"Why are you in Riverwood?"

Sorcha looked at the girl again and paused. She pressed her lips together for a moment before speaking. "I... had a job in Helgen. I'm heading back to Whiterun to collect my pay."

Dorthe cocked her head. "What kind of job?"

That was the question Sorcha dreaded Dorthe would ask. Although she tried not to, her jaw clenched. Being a mercenary was convenient — it paid well and earned her respect, but people always kept at a distance. The idea of fighting for coin didn't sit well with most. Understandably, Sorcha supposed. She threaded a hand through her red mane, twirling a finger around a single curl.

"I'm... um..." she began.

"Dorthe!"

Dorthe straightened and turned her head. Sorcha followed her gaze to the door. A woman was standing there — she'd just come in. Her arms were folded, her concern warping the face identical to Dorthe's.

"Yes, mama?" the girl almost groaned.

"Come away." Her stare was hard.

Dorthe frowned. "Why?"

"Do as I say. She's dangerous. Come away now."

"Why's she dangerous?"

Dorthe's mother hissed. "She kills people for money, Dorthe. Get away."

Sorcha watched as Dorthe's gaze snapped back to her. The girl's eyes were wider than before. She clambered off the bench and backed away a few feet. Her eyes fell on Sorcha's sword once more and her mouth opened. She hadn't noticed the dried blood until now. Turning around, she dashed to her mother's side and clung to her dress. There was fear in her eyes now. Sorcha grimaced and turned back to face the wall as Dorthe and her mother left the inn. She sighed, pictured skooma in her tankard and began to drink once more.


End file.
